


Careful, She Bites

by shadesfalcon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depressing, Developing Relationship, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Natasha and the handcuff thing, Slow Build, Swearing, wow i like to make characters suffer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesfalcon/pseuds/shadesfalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to a tumblr prompt that requested examining Natasha working through the Red Room handcuff brainwashing over a longer period of time, rather than one emotional breakthrough.<br/>It turned into more of a "trace the relationship through the years" fic, as Clint and Natasha quickly find out that breaking such a deep-seated habit might put more of a strain on their relationship than it can handle. It doesn't help that Clint has some issues of his own.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Two Months

The first time that Clint saw the handcuffs was after a recon mission in Eastern Europe. Unfortunately, the mission itself had gone about as far away from “recon” as one could get.

The first his team had known about their tail was when Lee had taken a bullet through the head while Clint was talking to him. The mission had gone downhill from there.

Fourteen hours later, stumbling and covered in blood, Clint found himself at one of Natasha’s off-base safe houses. She had several such apartments, but it was the only one he knew the actual location of. Fortunately, she rotated through them randomly, so it was unlikely he’d actually run into her.

Yet, somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find himself staring down the barrel of a PSS silent pistol the moment he made it through the doorway.

“Hey, Nat.” He kept his hands very still and in plain view. Even though she’d followed him back to SHIELD, and even though they’d worked well together over the last few months, he didn’t doubt she’d take the shot, if she thought she needed to protect herself.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I needed a place to crash that wasn’t my home.”

They stared at each other for moment. Clint watched her take in the blood and the weariness that caked him. He watched her look him up and down, and then roll her eyes and shove the gun back under her pillow.

“You can crash on the couch,” she snapped. “If you think you’re going to have nightmares, then there’s duct tape in the kitchen drawer. I’m not in the mood the be woken again.”

“Are you ever in the mood to be woken?”

She glared at him pointedly, but he just grinned at her until she turned over with a huff. Which was when he noticed the handcuffs. One circled her wrist and the other was snapped around one of the bedposts.

His first thought was that there was someone in the room, holding her hostage and about to get the jump on him. But the deep scratches in the wood spoke of time. If she’d made them recently, her wrist should be bleeding.

Plus, the logistics didn’t make sense. If someone had tried to chain her up by only one hand, then they would already be dead. Natasha picked her way out of cuffs the way other people shuffled cards or played with rolling rings. Nervous habits.

“Uh, Natasha?”

“No,” she answered, and Clint decided not to push it. She’d have given him a signal if something was wrong, and he knew pushing her would get him thrown out on his ass. He was kind of surprised she was letting him stay at all.

He kicked his shoes off and walked across the dark carpet. The floorboards creaked underneath his step, but he supposed that was probably a draw to someone like Natasha. All the better to hear you coming, my dear.

He lowered himself onto the couch, which was comfortable enough, but didn’t let himself lie down yet. He wanted to, but the memories of the day’s events were on a vicious replay. Every time he took a breath, the scene changed. Like a slideshow on a regulated timer.

Breath in, Lee’s head shattering under the bullet’s impact.

Breath out, the sheer noise of rotating confusion.

Breath in, Beck was dead already. Clint could see his chest cavity, but he couldn’t find the words to tell Harper to stop doing CPR.

Breath out, and it didn’t matter because Harper was slumped across Beck with some new holes of his own.

On and on and on and heavier and heavier. He didn’t want to stand up. He could hear the whispers of wind outside the window, and the glass rattled with that particular rhythm that meant a storm was on its way.

That was what got him to his feet again. If he did have a nightmare, and she kicked him out, it would probably be in the middle of that storm. If he had to wander the city in the middle of the night in a downpour, he’d end up in a bar. And everyone knew where that would lead.

With a disproportional effort he got himself to his feet and shuffled across the small apartment to the kitchen. It took him a few drawers, but he found the tape eventually, tore off a piece, and placed it carefully over his mouth. He took a few experimental breaths, and then returned to the couch with the roll of duct tape still held loose in his fingers.

This time, when he collapsed down onto the couch, he let himself lean over and curl up into a ball. He wished briefly that there was a blanket, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t there for the comfort, he was there to detox somewhere besides his home. Somewhere that he could develop associative trauma and not suffer further repercussions.

He didn’t want to remember this night every time he walked through his doorway. He didn’t want to spend so many sleepless nights in flashback that he eventually gave up and moved yet again.

This place? He never had to come back here again, if he didn’t want to. The memory of this night could both emanate and die here, and no one had to know.

The duct tape wouldn’t keep him from screaming himself awake, but it would be enough to make sure that he woke himself before he woke Natasha. He couldn’t afford to be kicked out tonight.

 

 

Nine Months

The second time he saw them was seven months later. They’d just gotten back from one of the most successful missions either of them had ever run. One of those hold-onto-this-memory-for-the-dark-times-to-come missions. One of those ones where the execution was by the book, their adversaries had been smart enough to surrender, and the information they’d been after was exactly where intel said it would be. One of those missions where everybody lived.

“Would you have ever surrendered?” Clint asked her in the car on the way home from the airport.

“I did surrender,” she reminded him.

“No, you craved a foundational morality, rather than a fluid one, and clawed for it the moment you saw the opportunity.”

“Well, aren’t you a fucking poet.”

“As if. The fact remains, if I hadn’t offered you the chance at defection, you would have revealed yourself to agent after agent, one by one, until someone made you the offer I did. It wasn’t about surrender.”

Any other day and that would have been the end of it, but they were riding high from the success of the trip, so Clint pressed his luck and added, “Why did you choose me, though? Why did you start with me?”

“Choose you?” Natasha scoffed. “You think I _chose_ to reveal myself to you so I could _ask_ to be taken under your wing?”

“You’re the Black Widow. If I saw you, then it was because you wanted me to.”

“Clinton Francis Barton!”

“What?! What did I do? I didn’t do anything!”

“I did not suffer through the last nine months, nursing a bruised ego, for you to think I gave myself up voluntarily. You tracked me across seven countries, cut off all my IDs, froze every account and backup account I had, and pinned me through the shoulder with an arrow. How could you possibly think I _gave_ myself up. You had me literally stuck to a wall.”

“What? But you--” She cut him off with a open-handed slap to his chest that forced him to huff in pain.

“ _But you_ ,” she mocked, and then rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Clint. Don’t sell yourself short. Now, how about we go out and have a drink in celebration? Maybe more than one? I’ve probably got some vodka at my place. We could get wasted and climb up on the roof and try to name all the stars.”

Clint hesitated for one half-second too long, and Natasha’s smile melted like ice in hot oil. She turned to look out her own window with a casual “or not” that made Clint’s heart stutter.

“Natasha,” he soothed.

“It’s not like I was inviting you back for a drunken fuck,” she hissed under her breath. “I just thought a celebration might be in order.”

They were both suddenly aware of their driver up in the front seat. Working someplace that required some intense security clearance meant office gossip was rare, but it still happened. Neither of them wanted to end up the subject of the next around-the-coffee-pot quickie.

It was almost enough to make Clint turn back to his own window, but the moment seemed too important, and he decided to risk it.

“It’s not that,” he said, speaking quietly. “It’s just that I don’t drink. Anymore.”

That got her attention, and she turned in her seat to fix him with a cold stare. “You don’t drink? After all the shit we’ve seen and the blood we’ve gotten under our fingernails, you don’t _drink_? The better part of the teenage population in your country has seen enough to drive them to drink, even with it against the law. And you’re telling me you don’t burn the image of dead faces out of your head for just a few hours?”

The conversation had turned honest in a way that was dangerous. This wasn’t two people telling each other the truth in the magic of a sleepover that had lasted till 3am. This was face-to-face. Things that were said face-to-face could never be taken back.

“I don’t drink,” he repeated.

“Why?”

She clearly wasn’t going to give it up, so he leaned in close enough that even the driver wouldn’t be able to read their lips in the rearview mirror.

“Because my family has a habitual proclivity toward finding themselves angry and violent in various bars across the country. And I picked up the same habit with a vicious destruction that tried to kill me more completely than any living enemy ever has.”

It occurred to Natasha, suddenly, that she’d glanced through Clint’s file when she’d first come on board with SHIELD. Across from “Father: deceased” it had read “motor vehicle accident.” Across from “Mother: deceased” it had read the same thing.

Nine months ago, she’d skimmed past that pair of matching phrases without a second thought. Today, she reconsidered their meaning.

“And you?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve spent more than my fair share of time with a bottle in my hand. It’s not a period of my life I want to go back to.”

“Well, I might have some mix in the back of my fridge. You can drink your drinks virgin and be in charge of making sure I don’t fall off the roof.”

Clint didn’t point out that she could be too wasted to remember her own name and still not fall off the roof. And when they got to her closest safe house and found it full of hard liquor but without any mix ingredients, he didn’t point out that that usually meant the owner was drinking straight from the bottle. And when she finally climbed back in through the window, barely tipsy even for all she drank, he didn’t point out the abnormality of the pair of handcuffs, one loop around her wrist and one loop around her bed.

Instead, he laid down next to her, and wrapped his arms around her waist in a loop of his own.

 

 

Thirteen Months

Natasha eyed the man sitting across from her and tried to force down her feelings of anger. They were on a plane, coming back from an assassination assignment that had been so “need to know” about its information, that they’d accidentally sabotaged themselves.

A series of unfortunate events had culminated in the target being too far away to properly identify. Clint refused to take the shot without knowing for sure, and the man had disappeared. Fifteen minutes later, intel confirmed that it had, indeed, been their target.

It was one of those situations where blame belonged with the higher-ups. Better communication would have meant better timing, would have meant a successful mission. Clint hadn’t even refused a direct order, since the decision had been left up to him.

Yet no matter how many times Natasha reminded herself of those facts, she still ended up glaring at the wall of the plane, barely able to keep from glaring straight at Clint.

She could tell by the way he sat that he knew she was pissed. He had his knees and ankles pressed together, as if terrified to venture outside his pre-allotted space.

Natasha sat silent and counted her heartbeats.

Hours later, when they’d finally made it back to the city, she was surprised to find that Clint followed her out of the car when she got out at her apartment. Ever since Budapest, they’d occasionally spent a few hours in each other’s beds, but they’d always gone back to sleep in their own. After the day they’d just had, she’d assumed he’d understand that she wasn’t in the mood.

She glared at him pointedly, one hip jutted out and teeth clenched, but it didn’t do any good. He made an effort to avoid looking at her, instead focusing on getting his bag out of the trunk. She had her own slung over her shoulder, and she turned to stalk into the house.

They paused in the doorway, unspoken barrier between them. She’d stopped just inside, with her feet planted wide apart and one hand on the doorframe.

“What are you going to do, Nat?” he asked. “Kick me out of your life every time I make a call you don’t like?”

“I can do that if I choose to.”

“Of course you can. I’m not saying you can’t. You can shut that door and I can call a cab and we’ll see each other at the secondary debrief tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that what people do when they’re angry at each other?”

He dropped his bag on the porch so he could throw his hands up in exasperation. “How should I know what people do? I _hope_ that’s not what they do. Seems like it would make for a pretty shitty lifestyle.” He calmed himself, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at her. “You know what? I’m not going anywhere. If you’re not going to let me in, then I’ll just sleep on the porch. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to deal with me.”

“Well, if you’re going to be an asshole about it,” she muttered, and moved aside to allow him in.

“Thank you,” he shot back, with too much vehemence.

The nighttime ritual was a little awkward, but they managed it, even if Nat did shoot him a glare every now and again. Clint, though, having already successfully got into the apartment, just grinned back.

“You can sleep on the couch,” she informed him, once everything was settling in for the night.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

“It’s in my nature, ma’am. Not sure what else you want from me.” His grin fell, however, when she pulled the cuffs out of the drawer. “Do you have to do that?”

She didn’t look up as she answered, “You know I do.”

“Yeah, but you don’t on missions. Or whenever we’re in hostile territory.”

“It’d be stupid to wear them when there’s a possibility we might get shot at at any moment. Or when we’re undercover. It’s a little difficult to explain them to the layman.”

“So you are able to not wear them?”

Having already clicked the cuffs closed, Natasha was forced to swing her whole body around to look at Clint. “If I understood how the whole thing worked, don’t you think that I would throw them out the window and never wear them again? You’re talking as if I _want_ to feel them on my skin. As if I enjoy seeing the scratches in the wood and remembering where I come from.”

Clint moved quickly across the room to sit on the edge of the bed and cup her face gently in his hand.

“No,” he whispered, and she made barely a semblance of a motion to move away from him. “No, I know that’s not how it is. I know you hate everything about it. So don’t wear it tonight.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“It can be. Let me unlock it. I’ll hold you still instead.”

“Where is this coming from? Why tonight? We’re worn out and tired and you want to do this _now_?”

“I want to do this now.”

“I don’t. Please leave it alone.”

“I think it would be good to win _something_ tonight.” He readjusted his position to move closer to her; to pull her against him. “Come on. You’re angry at me, because the mission didn’t go right. Because it looks like you messed up. So conquer something. Do _something_ right. You’ll feel better.”

She was only a little surprised at the sheer anger that emerged from her when he said, “Do something right.” As if letting the cold metal against her wrist calm her was inherently wrong. As if he knew what it meant to claw up the slippery clay walls that trapped such a habit within her mind.

It was the years of complacency that let her keep a calm façade as she contemplated the man who was suddenly no longer her lover. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

“Then unlock it,” she told him calmly.

After over a year, he knew her well enough to realize something was wrong. His eyes flicked back and forth, as if trying to read her own, but she spread her fingers wide on the bedspread and let him come up without an answer.

Left with only one recourse, he unlocked her.

She stood up and shucked her long t-shirt. She left it lying on the floor, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a tube top.

“Well?” she shot over her shoulder. “Get dressed, won’t you? We’re going on a field trip.”

“To?” He was clearly apprehensive, even as he pulled his own jeans over his boxers, with a t-shirt on top.

“Well, you’re talking about breaking habits like you’re a pro, and I suddenly realized the perfect way to help me get over this. We’re going for a little show-and-tell.” She snagged a leather jacket and slipped into a pair of black flats as she crossed the apartment. “I recommend shoes. It’s a little chilly.”

Clint didn’t say anything, possibly sensing that he’d crossed a line somewhere, but did slip his sockless feet into a pair of tennis shoes. She flashed him a saccharine smile and pranced out the door. It was barely 10pm, and she didn’t have much trouble getting a cab’s attention.

She almost lost Clint then, however. He hung around outside, standing on the pavement with on hand on the open car door, for long enough that the driver cursed in a language he mistakenly assumed neither of his passengers understood.

They both ignored the uncouth behavior, except for Clint finally sliding into the back of the vehicle.

As they drove, Natasha watched him carefully, wondering when along the route he would understand where they were going. It took him longer than she expected. In fact, he didn’t seem to fully realize, until the taxi pulled to the side of the road next to the never-really-closed dive bar that Natasha used to frequent.

“I don’t want to go in there, Natasha.” He didn’t even look at her when he said it, instead staring straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of him.

Like he was getting off that easy. She scooted a little closer to him and murmured, “But you wanted to show me how to get rid of my problem. Break my habit. Just come in and sit in there with me. Just sit.”

“Yeah just sit,” Clint spat back. “Just sit and just smell and just one taste.”

“Hey, lady,” the cabdriver spoke, surprising them both. “The guy says he doesn’t want to go it, so he doesn’t want to go it. Leave him be.”

Natasha shoved the fare, plus several extra bills, at the driver with a sweet smile. “Ah, mister, I wouldn’t worry about him.” Her smiled turned into a snarl. “Because if you interfere again, I’ll drag you out onto the street and paint the pavement with you.”

She shoved Clint roughly out of the cab, wondering briefly why he wasn’t putting up more of a fight. She’d expected resistance. Yelling and possibly a fistfight. She would have loved a fistfight.

“What’s the matter,” she seethed at him. “More eager to go in than you thought?”

“You’re scaring me,” was the brief answer. And it was almost enough to make her feel guilty. But she’d lost the ability to feel guilt a long time ago, and she found herself triumphant instead.

A few moments later, Natasha had hustled them into a couple of stools at the bar. The place wasn’t completely empty, but it was hardly hopping. Rather, it was filled with the steady tone of people who come to the same place every night, order the same thing, and go home with the same emptiness.

Natasha was tired of going home with emptiness.

“What’s your poison?” she asked.

“Why are we here? Why did you drag me out here to this god-forsaken trial?”

“Don’t be rude. It’s a nice enough place. And I’ve dragged you out here to make a point. Have you caught on to it yet?”

“I caught on!” He crossed his arms on the counter, leaning over it with the familiarity of someone who had done it a thousand times. His eyes were trailing up the shelves of liquor, and when they were asked for their orders, Natasha watched the color drain from his face.

“I’ll have a vodka martini,” she simpered. “And he’ll have…I don’t know? What was your father’s drink of choice?”

“Stop.”

“Beer guy? Scotch guy?”

“Natasha, stop.”

“Whatever-he-could-get-his-hands-on guy?”

“Please stop.”

“What was your drink? Did you take after your dad’s, or did you strike out for your own preference.” She turned back to the bartender. “He’ll have a whiskey. Leave the bottle."

“For fuck’s sake Nat!” He stood up wildly.

Everyone stared at them while Natasha crossed her legs, balancing on the stool, and regarded him coolly. “Sure you don’t want to buy me a drink? Maybe tell me what habits I should and should not be able to control at the snap of my fingers? Maybe use me as a tool to try and make yourself feel better about a bad call _you_ made in the field?”

He fled, nearly jumping a chair in his haste, and she buried her face in her arms on the bar.

“So,” the bartender drawled. “You still want that martini?”

“I want the martini _and_ the whiskey. And if you think I’m stopping there, then you must be new here.”

“Bad call in the field, huh? Take it you and your boyfriend are soldiers?”

Natasha peered up from her arms. “My _coworker_ and I are nothing like soldiers, and I swear to every god there is that if you continue talking to me then I will start a fight that will end in more property damage than you thought possible.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fourteen Months

That evening’s events put a damper on their relationship, as was expected.

That first morning after, Natasha prepared herself an elaborate breakfast, complete with sliced fruit and fresh-ground coffee. She sat in her chair, completely dressed for the day, and tried not to think about the fact that she couldn’t eat a bite.

For his part, Clint ate his cereal in silence, and it was just too much effort to get up and grab the milk for it. He sat there in his boxers, deafening himself with the crunch of dry cereal, and wished he had a dog for the thousandth time.

Pissed as he was, Clint hadn’t considered the possibility that whatever they were might be _over_. He’d replayed the events in his mind, cursed himself out for his words and proclivities, cursed her out for daring to take advantage of such a private fear, and still kept the “first fight is the worst” mantra in the back of him mind.

It didn’t really hit him until he got his first assignment that had her on the team. He felt a rush of relief that they’d be protecting each other’s backs, and therefore forced to at least be civil. They were both professionals, and that would hopefully open the door to a reconciliation. He knew neither of them had much practice at that, but he thought they’d figure it out.

His hopes plummeted ten minutes later when another email hit his inbox. It was a correction to the designated roster list, and Natasha’s name had been replaced. No explanation. No clues as to how she’d talked her way out of the assignment.

Clint threw his phone across the room.

**  
**

**  
**

Eighteen Months

That was almost the end of it. Over the next four months they each played every card they had in a child-like effort to avoid each other. Their anger would seem to settle, and would then be re-triggered by the smallest of interactions or coincidences.

And then Agent Eric Shepherd got himself grabbed by enemy forces in the middle of NYC. He disappeared somewhere between his apartment and the Manhattan Bridge, and no one had heard from him since.

The disappearance of a single agent, while cause for alarm, was not usually such a catalyst for panic. However, Agent Shepherd had a singular knowledge. He was, in fact, the only man alive who knew the name of every undercover agent on a job in Eastern Europe.

Several people, who were surreptitiously patting themselves on the back, had insisted that giving one person that kind of information was too dangerous. The council, however, had decided it was worth the risk in light of an upcoming coordinated multi-nation objective.

All of which culminated in Natasha and Clint standing side-by-side in Coulson’s office sometime around 3am. Clint kept forgetting he wasn’t holding coffee, and then disappointing himself when he found his hand still empty.

“So you want us to what?” Natasha asked blankly. “Find the guy from the complete lack of evidence left behind, and then bring him back?”

“I don’t think you’re understanding the gravity of the scenario,” Coulson replied. “Before he took on this responsibility, Agent Shepherd made it very clear that he understood the importance of this information. He stressed that his life is not to be prioritized.”

“Meaning what?” Clint interjected.

Natasha turned slightly toward him, without turning her head, and answered, “Meaning don’t bring him back if we can’t. Shoot him.”

“Shoot our own guy?” Clint cried, turning to Coulson for confirmation.

“You heard what she said. I don’t like it any more than you do, and if you _can_ pull him out, by all means, do that. But if you do find him, and it’s a no-win scenario, his life is not worth every agent we have in the field. Understand?”

They both chimed their “yes, sir” while Coulson looked back and forth between them.

“Now,” he continued, “it’s no secret that you two aren’t on friendly terms right now, and I need you both to understand that that’s no concern of mine. There is a good man out there somewhere, just now coming to terms with the fact that it is only a matter of time before he cracks and betrays everything important to him. _He_ is my concern. Not some feud that the two of you have decided to let get between you. There’s no one else for this mission right now, so this is the way it is.”

“We know how to do our jobs, sir,” Natasha informed him calmly.

Which meant that, fourteen hours, three plane flights, and eleven interrogations later, the two of them were on a rooftop in downtown Rochester. Natasha hadn’t been thrilled about getting back in contact with some of her old “acquaintances,” but it had all turned out for the best. Shepherd was being held in a warehouse in the city, waiting for his under-the-radar flight out of the Hendershot Airport.

“Leaving the question,” Natasha said, “of do we take the shot or risk a rescue?”

She was watching Clint make miniscule adjustments to the rifle he had in hand. The day was gray and cold, with the slightest hint of wind in the air. It had snowed the night before, and seeping slush was everywhere on the flat roof.

Clint was was stretched out on his stomach in it, already cold and damp and ready for the mission to be over. When Natasha spoke, however, he stopped peering through the scope and looked at her instead.

“There’s an option?”

“It’s not like Coulson said we _have_ to shoot him.”

“I know that. I just didn’t expect that you’d want to take the risk. You usually opt for the less risky venture. Less risky in reference to the mission objective anyway.”

“You want to make this about you not taking that shot? Really?”

“Of course not. I’m a professional, remember?” He went back to looking through the scope, made a few more adjustments, and then looked back at her again. “But if you think we can get him out, then I’m in. What’s the play?”

“You want me to call the play?”

“Well, if you see a way in, that’s great, but I’m not seeing it. So, obviously you have to be the one to call the play.”

“So now you trust my judgment.”

Clint buried his face in the slush, seemingly uncaring about the cold wetness. He continued to lie there for a moment, before he raised his head again, ignoring the chunks of dirty snow sliding down his face.

“I did trust your judgment. I made one comment about something we could maybe try, and you lost your mind over it. You shoved my addiction and my childhood down my throat. I didn’t confide in you so you could use it as leverage against me.”

“Your mistake. Friends are just enemies with a better shot.”

She’d said it with the intention of hurting him further, but was surprised when it made his eyes soften. “Maybe, Nat. But if so, I think I’d rather just end up shot. Now, are you going to tell me your idea, or am I going to have to hang out here until Shepherd comes out that door and becomes my target?”

“You’re not going to like it,” she admitted.

“So? Smart money will always be on the plan you come up with, no matter personal opinions on the subject.”

Natasha stared at him a while, then, trying to find any sarcasm or deception in the statement. She almost wished she could see some, because the alternative—that he was being entirely honest—was far more unnerving.

“The plan is that I go in and get myself taken. I can talk them into moving me with Shepherd. When we make the door, you take out who you can from here, and I’ll get control of the vehicle. Shepherd and I drive out, and you make your way across the roofs. We’ll all meet back up the secondary rendezvous. The primary’s too far for you to make it on foot. If I don’t come out with Shepherd, or I don’t manage to get control of the vehicle, we go back to the original plan, and you take out Shepherd.”

“You’re right.”

“I usually am. What are you referring to, exactly?”

“I don’t like it.”

***

The next hour and a half was painfully stressful for Clint. He laid still, melting slush eventually managing to make its way past the leather of his uniform and into his skin. It rubbed him raw and numb, all creeping across his chest. He tried to breathe deeply and slowly, but he started counting his breaths and trying to estimate how many more till something happened.

It made him wonder how many breathes he had left. How many Natasha had left. It was all well and good to know how much he trusted her when they were both safe on a rooftop. It was something else to try and remember it when she willingly submitted herself to practiced killers.

She’d said, once, that she did her best work when tied to a chair. He tried to hold onto that, playing and replaying the memory of her voice making those words.

He started counting replays like he’d been counting breaths.

When the warehouse doors were suddenly rolled open, he shifted his grip infinitesimally, and searched for her. When he finally found her, he didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to see her in handcuffs.

A brief survey of the formation identified the main targets, and he got three shots off before anyone but Natasha knew what had hit them. The first two targets hit the ground with bullets through the center of their foreheads, but the third managed to move slightly and the bullet tore through his neck instead, leaving him to choke out on the pavement. He’d probably get an earful from Natasha about that later.

Which was a surprisingly warm anticipation.

He followed her movements as she ditched her handcuffs and her hood, shoved Shepherd in the back of the van, and slammed the door shut. He took out another of the men, one who’d finally drawn a gun, at the same time that Natasha snapped the neck of one who’d gotten little too close.

Then Natasha was in the van, and Clint took off across the rooftops. Coulson would be pissed they’d let their faces be seen, but he doubted there’d be many repercussions.

***

“You’re not going to give me hell about the almost-miss back there?” he asked, once they were on the plane. The med team had given Shepherd something that had knocked him out, and the two of them were alone near the front of the plane.

“The one you shot through the throat? Nah. He’s was a little too handsy in there with me. Glad to see him realize death was coming. Not everyone deserves a clean bullet through the head.”

“Well, there’s an intensely disturbing image that I would like to never remember. But I guess I’m glad I could be of service.”

“Why? Because you didn’t get to last—”

Clint had closed his eyes and tensed his entire body for whatever new hurtful thing she had thought of to say. For whatever way she’d found to draw the conversation back to that disaster of a night. Instead, he found himself waiting within silence, and he opening his eyes to see her sitting still with pursed lips.

He regarded her, although she refused to look back at him.

“I didn’t mean to, you know,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to fix you, or tell you that you needed to fix you. I just wanted to help. To try something I thought might feel good.”

“You laid judgment on me. Decided what I should and should not be strong enough to handle.”

“So you what? Returned the favor? It might have escaped your notice, Natasha, but I made the decision to stop drinking a long time ago. And I did it with a lot of help, too. You didn’t have a point to make. Not really. You just wanted to drag me out someplace you knew you could do real damage.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked.”

They didn’t speak again until the aircraft was preparing to descend, and even then, it was a brief exchange.

“I tried,” she told him. “A few weeks after. I tried sleeping without them. But I just sat there, clutching them in my hand, wide awake in the dark.”

He reached out and brushed her shoulder, before pulling his hands back to his own lap.

 

 

Twenty Months

Clint opened his door in one quick movement, gun in hand, and was only a little surprised to find her standing on his doorstep. She had a plastic bottle of Ocean Spray cranberry juice clutched in both hands, and the red nail polish on her fingers was chipping. He’d never seen her with chipped nail polish before.

“Cranberry juice?” he asked, shoving his handgun back in his waistband.

“It’s like a Cape Cod, but without the vodka. Or the lime. Or the ice. If you take it with ice.”

Clint figured that was just about as close to an apology as either of them was going to get, and stepped aside to let her in.

 

 

Twenty-Three Months

“It’ll be like a game,” he told her. “We’ll try something different every night.”

When she’d told him she was ready to start trying to take off the handcuffs, he’d been hesitant at first—once burned, twice shy—but she’d been persistent, and he’d ended up getting excited about the whole venture.

They’d decided on following the path Natasha had originally picked out herself, letting her sit on the bed without the cuffs, and trying to get her to sleep.

They started off simple. Herbal teas with honey and chamomile. Then warm milk, which Natasha spat out. Clint laughed at her until she made him try it, but that backfired, since he ended up liking it.

They tried getting her on a melatonin schedule. They tried warm baths and ocean noises. They tried lying still, watching television, meditating, and counting sheep. Natasha recited catechisms in every language she knew, tried saying awake instead, and even hummed to herself.

Clint even found less typical tricks on the internet, such as breathing only through your left nostril or the 4-7-8 method.

As each night passed without success, Clint began to worry that Natasha might get frustrated. Yet, the days continued to pass with languid persistence, and she continued in much the same way. Unphased, and open to whatever ridiculous idea Clint had next.

He finally broke down and asked her where she was finding her patience, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Don’t be blind, Clint. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning every day that this doesn’t work, means one more day I wake up next to you.”

He kissed her then, for the first time in months.

 

 

Twenty-Seven Months

It was a shock, when it finally happened. They were curled up on her bed, leaning back against the headboard, and watching old Bonanza reruns. They’d been alternating cheering Ben Cartwright on, and making fun of absolutely everything that happened. And then, Clint asked Natasha a question. Later, he wouldn’t even remember what it had been, but when he looked down for the answer, her eyes were closed. Her head had dipped down to lean against his chest, and she was breathing deeply and slowly.

Clint felt every muscle in his body freeze, as he double-checked both of her wrists. As if she might have slipped the cuffs on when he wasn’t watching. But both wrists were free, and he had to work hard to keep his own breathing slow and steady.

He didn’t move for a long time after that, like when a cat that you’re pretty sure hates you suddenly curls up on your chest and falls asleep.

By the time Natasha woke with a start, several of Clint’s limbs had lost feeling, and he didn’t give a shit.

 

Twenty-Eight Months

Ironically, after that first success, Natasha finally started to get frustrated. Having completed the task once, she seemed to think she was entitled to never struggling with it again. Which made the push and pull of the next several months more painful than necessary.

Eventually, Clint convinced her to start going through all the things they’d tried before, on the off chance that one of them might now work, since the wall had been broken.

It all turned out to be just as much as waste of effort as the first attempts. The second time that she fell asleep unchained was in the trembling haze of a post-orgasm lilt, with Clint still half on top of her, struggling to catch his breath after the wildness that was their love. The warm wetness between them dripped slowly, and they both drifted off in the peace of not giving a shit about anything but that one suspended moment.

 

Thirty Months

Clint wasn’t sure whether or not he should be embarrassed that it had taken him so long to figure out. Either way, as he leaned against Natasha’s doorway at 2:15am, he fixed her with a pointed gaze and said, “I know you don’t need me to fall asleep anymore.”

“Not all the time,” she countered. “Just every now and again.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” She put her hands to her chest in mock-offence. “You dare accuse me of being a _liar_? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Tasha. If you want me to stay over, you just have to ask me to stay over. This isn’t college. I’m starting to feel a little used with all the booty-calls.”

“You’re the one who keeps going back to your apartment.”

“Natasha Romanoff. Are you asking me to move into your apartment? Well, _one_ of your apartments.”

Natasha didn’t say anything.

“If I’m going to do that, then we can’t tell Coulson. He’d throw a fit. ‘Combination of assets’ and ‘increased risk vs reward ratios’ or whatever it is that makes him spread us all out across the city.”

“Are you going to come in, or not?” she interjected.

“Hold on a second.” He moved back a few steps and slowly raked his eyes up and down her, cheeky grin in place. “I’m just taking a moment to admire the view.”

“Don’t be an dick,” she quipped. “Get your ass inside. You’re letting all the heat out of my apartment. And look at me. I’m practically shivering.”

“I have a few ideas about how we might warm you up.”

“Like I said. Get your ass inside.”


End file.
